An Ode to Bedtime

Bedtime has become a four-hour ordeal in our house. 

Excuse my absence, I’ve been trying to find my voice, my head, and 15 minutes to write something down that’s not bananas, milk, coffee. Motherhood has rendered me void of inspiration like Harper Lee after To Kill a Mockingbird. 

I’ve spent a long time debating whether the monotony of spending all day with my kids locked down during the, now, endemic is worth sharing, and I haven’t come to a conclusion. However, one day my kids are going to grow up, sleep in, and stop scaling me like a rock climbing wall, and I will wish I still remembered how to spell. 

If you’re into rom coms with extra spice, this is not the blog for you, but if you’ve ever been tired enough to put the remote control in the freezer and the ice cream in the pantry, you’re in the right place. Don’t think you’re reading this for advice, though. I’m about as sage as a myopic toddler without her glasses. I only share the experience so that when you’ve set your alarm for 4 am so you can drink a cup of coffee in peace and your kid wakes up at 4:01 am and wants you to share said coffee, you can know there is someone on the other side of the internet having the same experience. 

And now, An Ode to Bedtime

Come late afternoon, I see you looming with your itchy eyes and whining. 

It’s too early, I plead with you. They’ll never stay asleep. 

You laugh and tell me that’s the point. 

With the blender spinning and Taylor Swift Shaking it Off, a toddler drifts off to dreamland in my arms. You and I both know this is a false alarm. One creak of the cheap laminate flooring as I back away from the crib and she’s screaming like she’s lost a limb. 

Her sister masks exhaustion with her best Mariah Carey impression.

You thrive on schadenfreude, bedtime, you passive-aggressive nightcrawler, you. 

I read the books and trained these sweet girls to lay their heads down and to keep them down until the sun wakes up, but I am no match for you, bedtime. 

Thirty minutes once a day is not enough stage time for you. You are Bruce Springsteen circa 2016—only 4 hours will do. And I have to hand it to you. 

Like Lance Armstrong in his doping days, you win. We all know how that ended, though. 

Until you fall, I’ll cry and curse my way through, and I’ll (gently) toss my tots to more patient people when my parenting becomes even more questionable than it already is. 

You may own the night now, but even the tiniest babies turn into teenagers. 

Parting will be such sweet success.